Chapter thirteen
Of mud, blood and a zorca hornRotting garbage piled head-high along the street scraped at nostrils and back of throat with rancid stenches. Smoking torches threw scraps of erratic illumination upon the macabre scenes, gleaming upon frenzied half-naked bodies, glinting upon pools of stinking water slimed in the ruts and runnels of the mud-choked street. The air crackled with high, empty screams of laughter, with shrieks of pain and the spitting conflagrations of the fires burning at every corner.
“By Vox!” breathed Seg. “Is every town of Menaham like this inferno?”
Beggars, thieves, prostitutes, pickpockets, the jetsam of society, existed in the poor quarter of the town of Gorlki in Menaham. License held absolute sway. Brutality, the dictate of the strong and ruthless, c
